Waking up is painful—
she said with her hand
on my forehead—rocking
to the rhythm of my sobbing:
a heave from my pelvis raking my
throat—gravel like fossilized vomit.
This life has never felt warm,
felt safe to you. She, kneeling beside,
holding me, whispered:
poor battered child of war.
» Sang Lee is dead. »
Poetry & Poetics w/ Charles Bivona
You May Need a Mental Health Break
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